


A Duke in the Hand

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Comedy, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Strong Female Characters, not enough Charles fics in the world yet, tudor romcom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:07:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22866838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: Honouring a wish of his late father, Charles accepts his maiden Aunt to live out her last days in his Manor. But is she as ill as she seems? And who is her odd companion?
Relationships: Charles Brandon/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Tudor rom-com that pretty much no one asked for.
> 
> This is AU (Charles has no wife).

“Something on your mind, Charles?” the King asked, moving his wooden chess piece after a few moments of thought.

The hour was late and the fire crackled in the sprawling, ornate hearth at their backs. Charles and the King often played thus, in the King’s private chambers, sometimes well into their cups, other times to avoid having to retire with the ladies and be trapped whilst they played cards and talked of sewing and the weather. Charles knew  _ full well _ that ladies talked of other things; just not in the presence of men. 

“My Aunt is coming to live with me,” he said at length.

Henry arched a brow. “And is this not good?”

“It’s neither here nor there. She’s rather old. Biddable I expect. It was my father’s last wish before he died that she not see out her final years alone, and now she has reached such an age that the wish must be honoured. I have the means, and the space, thanks to your Majesty, to support, her, and so.” He waved a hand. “That is that.”

The King cast his head back and laughed heartily. “You’re afraid the old woman will hinder your ability to sow your wild oats. Or worse, while away her days on some bird-brained match-making scheme, hitching you to a common country milkmaid who’ll give you a houseful of brats.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “Am I so transparent, your Majesty?”

“Yes,” Henry smirked. “But no matter. You may leave at her your manor house whilst you are here at court, and here at court you may…. Board other men’s boats unhindered.”

Although he smiled and returned the King’s uplifted glass in salute, Charles’s stomach clenched uncomfortably. He enjoyed court life, of course, the food, the dancing, the colour, the women, the music, but he  _ had _ made a promise to his father, God rest the man’s soul. And Charles was not a complete reprobate, whatever other men’s…. boats might think. Leaving his maiden Aunt to while away her days alone in his manor, with only servants for company did not sit well with him. But what else to do? He could hardly play cards with her every afternoon, or discuss feminine topics. 

God forbid. A man could only hear so much about varying shades of thread and the shape of clouds without wanting to chop his own head off just for silence.

He would have to hope that the elderly Clementine had a lady in waiting or other such companion to stay with her; entertain and coddle her.

“More wine.” The King topped up Charles’ goblet. “More wine, less thinking, my friend.”

Charles lifted his cup and obediently sipped. “I worry for nothing, I’m sure.”

The King drank his own wine greedily, made another chess move, a clumsy one this time. “How much trouble can one old woman be? You are the Duke of Suffolk. She’ll kowtow to you, I am sure of it.”

“Hmmm.” Charles reached for the wine again. It helped him stop thinking so much.

*******

He regretted the wine later the next morning, waiting outside his manor house to recieve Aunt Clementine. The Spring day was fresh, sunny, a welcome breeze stirring the air and the cherry blossom trees that lined the path up to the home the King had so generously bestowed to him. The ride from the royal residence at dawn had relieved him of his headache but not the general feeling of malaise which came with too much wine. The king’s drink was always more potent than elsewhere in the country, it seemed; or perhaps Henry simply poured with too free a hand.

A large carriage rolled up, the horses kicking up small clouds of dust with their hooves, and Charles brushed down his doublet a little self-consciously. It had been some time since he’d seen his Aunt, and, well, no matter how lofty his position now, a boy never forgot a chastising or ear-yanking from an Aunt.

He settled his hands in front of him in the usual courtly fashion as the carriage stopped. A second carriage-

A second carriage followed the first. What the f-

The carriage halted and the clouds above parted as a footman opened the door, bathing the ground his Aunt would step out on to in sunshine. Charles refrained from rolling his eyes - Aunt Clementine had always loved a bit of drama, from his memory.

The footman helped his Aunt out. She put one frail, gloved hand into the footman’s, leaning heavily on an ornately-carved walking stick.

“Charles, my boy! Let me look at you.”

Charles obediently moved to the carriage to meet her. Her faced was lined, smaller than he recalled, but her eyes glittered, brown like hazelnuts. She pinched his cheek and he felt five years old again, caught with his jam-sticky hand in the biscuit jar.

“How you’ve grown! And this beard, mmm. Is this how they’re wearing them in court these days?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Pish. Aunt Clementine if you please. I’m nobody’s Madam. I’m far too old for that,” she guffawed.

Charles studied her and wondered if she was really as frail as her housekeeping staff had made out to him in their missive. Perhaps she had been buoyed by the thought of food and wine and a warm welcome, and a long stay in a fine manor. That must be it. “Aunt Clementine, perhaps we should get you inside, out of the wind.”

She gestured to the second carriage. “Oh yes, of course. And I have packed a light selection of my belongings.”

Glancing over, Charles made himself keep his mouth closed as a second footman began to unload trunk after trunk. What could she possibly have in there? Bricks? “Madam, I-”

“For lord’s sake, boy, I’m dying, aren’t I? You’d stop an old woman from having her things around her in the Winter of her life?”

Her waspish tongue made him hold his own. “Of course not,” he replied stiffly. His own household staff scurried to assist Clementine’s footmen, and as she ordered them to be careful, Charles wondered again if she  _ actually _ was dying. He knew better than to question a relative so advanced in age, however. It might get him another cheek pinch. It hurt more than he wanted to admit.

“I hope it’s no trouble that I’ve brought my companion with me,” Clementine prattled on, snapping her fingers. The footman crossed again to the carriage, holding out his hand. A black glove appeared, followed by a black coat. The lady appeared to have a full figure, albeit all covered in fabric the shade of midnight, a full skirt, and a small veil, as was customary when travelling. Her eyes, green like the forest, met his, and he was momentarily spellbound by their deep emerald colour. The lacy veil hid her mouth, but he got the impression that she was smiling.

“This is Millicent, my trusted companion,” Clemetine announced. “She’ll be staying with me, and under my care.”

“Of course, Aunt.”

Millicent offered her hand silently and Charles took it, brushing his lips over her glove. “Are you in mourning, my lady?”

Her brow quirked. “I am not, my lord. But, if I were, depending on the circumstances of course, black would be preferable. To hide the stains,” she added, brightly.

Charles coughed to cover a startled laugh. What stains she could possibly be alluding to, he had no idea. She was a strange little bird. No doubt being confined with his Aunt Clementine had been hard for her. She could not be expected to have courtly manners, he would ensure he tried to remember that. “Very well. Please, come inside.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn more about Milly, Clem and of course, Charles.

An hour later, Milly helped Clementine unpack her belongings. It’d likely take the entire day, if not more, to set everything in its place. Clementine did not travel light. She’d set her mind to something, and the old lady was immovable once she had decided.  _ It is the principle, Milly, _ she had announced grandly.  _ I may die, but it shall be on my terms and mine alone. And it shall be somewhere comfortable and I shall have all my finery around me. _

One of Milly's favourite things about Clem was her stubborn will.

She folded an obscenely ornate peacock green cloak - the one Clementine wore when she was in one of her moods - and placed it carefully in the chest at the foot of the old lady’s new bed; an elegant four poster.

Milly had to wonder what had gone through Lord Suffolk’s mind when he’d greeted them. The handsome, serious-faced Duke had remained perfectly cordial, a silent raise of one brow the only indication that he suspected Clementine of not being  _ quite  _ as ill as advertised.

It had taken  _ immense _ willpower for Milly to hide her smile at his obvious discomfort. He’d expected an invalid, perhaps even an old woman on a form of stretcher. Instead, he’d been met with the whirlwind that was Clementine.  _ The unstoppable force meets the immovable object. _

For herself, Milly was happy indeed for a change of scenery. The Duke’s manor house rose from the ground like a song of the ancients, all gorgeous stone and stained glass windows, beautifully carved, not unlike the man himself.

The rooms allocated to herself and Clementine were fine indeed. And best of all, Clementine had hinted often that Lord Suffolk would be away at court for much of the time, or away on the King’s business. For Milly, this was  _ ideal. _ She could indulge in all of her… unladylike… past-times. Messy oil painting which stained her fingers (unbecoming). Riding a horse as a man did ( _ very _ unbecoming - but much more comfortable). And wearing men’s hose whilst riding (the worst sort of sin, extremely unbecoming - and again, ever so comfortable. Everything men did seemed to be more comfortable than what women had to endure). 

And alone, she could indulge in her favourite best case scenario daydream - finding a rich but amiable and dull husband who left her to her own devices, mostly, and indulged her past-times, who didn’t try to cage her in to being a “proper” lady but instead allowed her free rein. And of course being married to such a man meant she could be free to pursue her interests and also free of the pressure to marry. And free of the pressure of being a “spinster,” the scorn of society country-wide.

Her step-father had seen to it that if she ever found such an amiable man, he would likely be as poor as a church mouse, or a fourth son without prospects. Soiled doves could never command Dukes like Lord Suffolk.

Milly put that thought away, angry with herself for spoiling her first day at the manor house. She should be rejoicing that she’d been granted this turn of good fortune. Fresh country air. A room of her own, with a big window. A change.

She finished with the current bag of Clementine’s scarves and shawls and let herself flop back on the big four poster bed, stretching out her arms and legs, playing at making angel shapes, laughing at herself. So much space, and if she drew the curtains around the bed, she would have total privacy.

Did the Duke draw the curtains around his bed when he took lovers?

_ Such thoughts will not end well, Millicent, _ she lectured herself silently. But she had no doubt that he was  _ quite _ the lover at court. 

And out of it. And in fact, anywhere. He had the look of temptation; a fallen angel made in the form of a man. Summer-sky blue eyes, a jaw carved from marble, softened by a scruff of beard that would scrape a lover’s skin just so. And those thick curls, the colour of the finest, polished oak.

*******

“My Lord,” Lady Blake gasped, as Charles kissed his way down the slender column of her neck. He smiled against her skin. Lord Blake was aged, with what seemed a constant case of gout. Charles had been satisfying Blake’s wife for some months now. At somewhere around thirty, she was a striking, sensual woman, a naughty gleam in her eye across a banquet table had caught Charles’ attention. A few slipped notes by servants and it hadn’t taken long for the game to be afoot.

Her ringed fingers slid into the thick curls of his hair, pulling gently as he in turn laved her erect nipples, bringing soft mewls of joy from her lips. The valley between her breasts smelled faintly of lavender, her preferred perfume. His name escaped her mouth as he parted her legs, kissing a path down her stomach and the place where she’d take him inside her body.

The candles in the room showed their shadows moving as he licked her thoroughly, her legs trembling on his shoulders. When she climaxed, he moved up her body and entered her in one swift thrust, both of them exhaling at the contact. The muscles at the heart of her milked him, the wet heat a fire of pleasure licking up his cock, stealing the breath from his lungs. Her nails scraped at his back, and he welcomed the tiny hurt.

When it was over, there was no soft cuddling. Lady Blake never stood for that. She simply sent him on his way with a saucy smile. They both knew this wasn’t the last time. 

A life at court afforded Charles plenty of bored married ladies, ripe for the plundering. He never took an unwilling partner, and he never made promises. He simply took pleasure where it was offered, and gave pleasure in as great a measure as he was capable.

Court was busy, often enjoyable, but sometimes, a trial, if the mood took Henry to be sullen or manipulative. However, currently, court provided an escape from his Aunt Clementine. She and her companion had been living under his roof for a scant three days - it taken taken almost all of that time to unpack everything Clementine had brought with her, all but the garderobe fittings, it seemed - and she had immediately given the girl - Millicent,  _ not yet in mourning, _ a list of all the foods which upset her delicate stomach.

The same stomach did not stop her from eating sixteen of the freshly baked Jumbles, Cook had reported brightly. At least someone in Charles’ house was enjoying themselves.

And so, when the summons had come from His Majesty for Charles to attend court, for a special, seven course banquet in honour of Queen Anne becoming pregnant, Charles had for once, despite his intense dislike of Anne, happily acquiesced, riding the very same day. 

As he’d mounted his horse, he saw Millicent watching from the big window in her quarters, wearing another black gown. He was starting to doubt she owned any other colours. 

She’d put her hand on the glass, palm pressed against the window, open, as if reaching, and he thought, for a second, she looked quite wistful, like an angel, or an enchantress in a painting. For the first time, he’d wondered what it might be like to have a woman to come home to, a warm welcome awaiting him behind the big oak doors.

Then the moment passed, and he rode away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Milly cross swords.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thankyou to my beta, @constip8merm8, for making this chapter 100x better than it was!!
> 
> NB: "Winchester Geese" is 1500-era slang for women of ill repute.

  
  
  


“What the  _ devil _ is happening here?” Charles demanded as he strode into the main hall of his manor house. His deep voice boomed off the solid stone floors and reverberated up the tapestry covered walls, startling the cluster of servants busy with several bolts of velvet fabric in various colours, yards of braided rope in gold, and volumes of lavender gossamer tulle. 

Aunt Clementine looked up, a vast bolt of golden fabric draped over a servant's arm for her inspection. “Ah, Charles, dear boy, late to the party as usual." Clementine turned her attention back to the fabrics in front of her. "I would have thought it was rather obvious. I am redecorating. I should wager that this place hasn’t been touched since His Majesty granted it to you." She moved onto the next bolt of fabric. 

Charles felt a muscle tick in his cheek and he held his tongue for a moment. After a length he replied with great restraint "My time and energies have been in service to the King, at court." 

"Of course!" Clementine agreed without taking her eyes off the golden orange velvet being offered up. She gestured to the other servant standing on a wooden ladder and the young man obediently held up a red bolt of fabric. She frowned. “No, no, we don’t want the place to look like a home for Winchester Geese, do we? At least I don't want to have that realization upon  _ initially  _ entering the hall." After a brief pause, she picked up some of the gold brocade and held it up to the red fabric. "Perhaps we can make use of this colour…. elsewhere.”

“Aunt,” Charles said, warningly. She was supposed to be  _ old _ and  _ frail,  _ not full of ideas and life and  _ time. _ He ground his teeth together and strove for patience. "Perhaps we should discuss the length of this visit - -" 

“Oh!” Clementine dropped her hand from the bolt of fabric and pressed the back of her palm to her forehead. “I feel rather overcome all of a sudden. The air… my head…. Milly-!” She staggered dramatically a few steps away from the servants holding the fabrics, keeping a hand poised perfectly over her eyes. As she got to a clear space in the middle of the hall, she suddenly went limp. 

The servants stood around awkwardly, but Charles thought he detected a hint of amusement curling the lip of the one holding the brocade.

Milly appeared quite from nowhere - another black gown cladding her feminine form - to catch the older woman as Clem sagged in Milly’s arms. A fan appeared from somewhere, and a handkerchief. Also black. 

“You’ve overdone it again,” Milly said, her tone gentle, then she glared at Charles. “I feel quite sure that His Grace did not  _ mean  _ to upset you. After all, you are simply trying to contribute in whatever way you can, as a way to say thanks for His Grace's generosity during your decline.”

Charles stared daggers back at her. Her eyes flashed and she gathered Clementine - now the absolute picture of frailty and age - close. “Come now, let’s get you to bed. Such big projects take so much out of you. We can continue in the morning, but now it's time to rest.”

“Perhaps I should have a fainting couch placed in each room in case of these sudden…. Vapours,” he heard himself say, his sarcasm as heavy as the gold brocade Clem had been eyeing.

Milly looked up at him, her face all saccharine sweetness. “Oh,  _ could you, _ your Grace? That’s ever so thoughtful.” She cast him a pitying smile as she escorted Clem from the room. The older woman mumbled indistinguishable sounds under her breath as she was lead from the hall, but not before stealing a swift glance in Charles' direction and dropping the fan on the floor.

Charles had the very distinct and unsettling realisation that perhaps he had met in his match in this seemingly mild-mannered companion to his maiden Aunt.

He looked up to see the servant with the brocade staring at him, mesmerized. “What do you want?” he snapped.

“Nothing, Your Grace.” The poor man scrambled down the ladder, folding it away with the red cloth. He, along with the dozen or so other servants scurried away, taking the ladder with them, and Charles dropped into the nearest leather chair, scrubbing a hand over his face. He needed to go back to Court again. It was easy there; simple, uncomplicated compared to the mess that his home life had suddenly become. At Court he was masterful, respected, a force to be reckoned with. 

Here, it seemed, he was rapidly moving down the food chain.

He made to move from the chair when Milly reappeared in the room to retrieve the fan Clem had dropped. She curtsied deeply, but he wasn’t fooled.

“Your Grace.”

“Don’t  _ Your Grace _ me,” he muttered. “Did you know what she was about? Meddling with my…. Decor?”

“With the greatest of respect, Your Grace, perhaps any meddling would only serve to improve it. Winchester Geese notwithstanding.”

“I am  _ not _ a regular customer of - Never mind.” His stomach burned. “You overstep yourself, my lady.”

“Apologies, Your Grace.” But her eyes remained a blaze of intellect and sarcasm, not sorry in the least. “Clementine does come down with a touch of the vapours rather often-”

“When it is most helpful to her own cause, it would seem,” he shot back, but the fight had gone out of him. He reclined back in the overstuffed chair, glad that he’d removed the heavy chains of Ducal office. They weighed on him sometimes, even when they weren’t actually looped around his neck. 

“You judge her when her cause is to have some company and comfort in the Winter of her life? Forgive me Your Grace, but the world is not kind to women, least of all aging ones. Should we not all seek a little comfort when we can?” Milly asked quietly. 

Charles met her gaze, green and sombre, although her mouth twitched, suggesting she  _ knew _ the old woman wasn’t too frail and that she was teasing him. “And how came you of all this wisdom, being sequestered away with my Aunt in the prime of your womanhood…?”

Milly frowned. “I am  _ lucky, _ Your Grace, to spend my time with Clementine. She is wise, kind, and has lived an endlessly interesting life. She teaches me so much.”

He held back a snort. “Not courtly manners though, it would seem.”

“If the rumours are true, my Lord, most  _ courtly manners _ have nothing to do with manners and everything to do with the clandestine affairs of bored wives and peacock politicians,” she shot back, but her tone was soft, as if she knew he held on to patience by a very thin thread. “Clem has no time for such parlour games.”

Charles let his gaze linger on the soft curve of her cheek; her smooth, pale pink lips. Had she ever been kissed? How young had she been when she had begun her time in service to his Aunt. “And what do  _ you _ have time for, my Lady? You honestly never wish to go to court? Not once?”

She looked away for the first time since she’d come back into the room, and he saw it; the tiniest twitch of a muscle in her jaw. Her left hand bunched in the thick, sprawling material of her skirts, black as a raven’s wing. When she finally replied, her voice was flat. “I shouldn’t think I would be welcomed there, my Lord,” she murmured, her voice carrying to him in the otherwise quiet room, the echo of birdsong the only other sound beyond their words.

“Anyone His Majesty invites is welcome,” he heard himself say. He wanted her fire back, her wit, her sarcasm, not this quiet obedience. It did not suit her at all.

“Well, then, I await my invitation on the fastest steed his Majesty has available,” she joked, her lips quirking impishly. “She does not mean to provoke you, my Lord,” Milly added, turning to look out of the big picture window in the hall. Beyond, the grass grew thickly, spotted with clumps of bright wildflowers, the petals reaching for the sun. “Your Aunt, I mean.”

A laugh tickled the base of Charles’ throat. He’d not enjoyed a conversation with a woman this much for a while. His conversations with women in court were usually either those of strategy or of seduction. “Forgive me if I doubt that.”

Milly turned to smile at him over her shoulder. The sunlight caught her green eyes just so, and for a moment, Charles was utterly spellbound, caught in the mischief kissing her smile, her unguarded beauty.

  
  
  
  



End file.
